


Made for each other

by FreeShavocadoo



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Alfie calls Tommy treacle a lot, Domestic Fluff, Family Meetings, Fluff, M/M, Pining, Tailor AU, funny dynamics, lots of swearing because it's alfie
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-14
Updated: 2018-12-01
Packaged: 2019-08-02 03:34:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16297409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreeShavocadoo/pseuds/FreeShavocadoo
Summary: Tommy's tailor is eccentric, rude and quite frankly, not worth the money he's getting for his services.If Tommy had any sense, he'd go elsewhere.Things don't always work out the way he wants them to, though.





	1. The wandering tailor

It’s not too much to ask, Tommy thinks.

It is _not_ too much to ask to have a tailor go through a fitting without speaking unless necessary. Especially in a place that gets more than enough money in general, not withstanding the amount it receives from Tommy alone.

It wasn’t as if Tommy was predisposed to treating these people as if they were lesser than he was. He knew what it was like to graft for money, at least he had a long time ago before he started making _real_ money. It wasn’t hard to relate to the way these workers would often be stared at and treated, as he too still received the same scorn from men who were now more than willing to take his money until his back was turned, only to murmur under their breath about disgusting gypsy gangsters.

But when a man is moving measuring tape around your waist, there should only be a few choice and professional words said. This was rarely the case with Alfie Solomons.

“C’mon, treacle, move your arms up for me,” he says, glasses perched on the tip of his nose with his eyebrows furrowed, eyes flickering to Tommy’s briefly, “you’d think you haven’t done this before.”

Biting his tongue is hard, yet Tommy is of the belief at least one of them has to remain professional in this situation, so he lifts his arms and stares straight ahead with a small sigh.

“Fuckin’ell.” Alfie leans back, tape around Tommy’s waist tightening as he nods to himself. “You’ve got a woman’s waist, ain’t you?”

Tommy clears his throat, wondering what exactly he did to deserve this. He wonders briefly if the old tailor he’d had was actually dead or if this absolute nutcase had killed him, though he’d rather not rest on the thought with the man currently binding his waist with tape measure. They’d assured him that he’d be in good hands with their ‘best tailor’, the self-professed ‘best tailor in London, mate’ by his own admissions. Tommy was beginning to doubt the authenticity of these statements.

“Alrigh’, c’mon, turn around sweetie, I ain’t got all day.” Alfie moves his arms upwards to measure once more, Tommy’s eyes following him in the mirror he’s in front of, noting the way Alfie nods and hums to himself as though he’s having a conversation with someone who isn’t there. The slightly demented character is only furthered by the glasses perched on his nose and the perpetual frown, eyes darting back and forth. Tommy’s certain when they catch his own in the mirror he winks and maybe for a second, Tommy’s heart stops.

When he starts measuring the outside span of his leg, Tommy does start to wonder what possessed him to put this level of trust in a man who seems to be convinced his own shadow is betraying him. Part of him wonders if he’ll end up attending this charity dinner not with a suit that looks bespoke, but one that is 5 centimetres above where it should be on both the ankles and wrists that’s probably too tight.

Solomons would probably find that _quite_ amusing.

They say he was a Captain in the war. Tommy finds it slightly hard to believe, but when a loud bang from the factory across the road seems to ring in through the tailors open windows and Tommy visibly blanches, he catches Alfie’s eyes flinching and the way the tape currently around Tommy’s wrist tightens for a second as Alfie’s hand jerks. Neither say anything, though Alfie’s eyes flicker to Tommy’s as if he’s staring into his soul and Tommy feels more naked than he has any right to.

“Right, Thomas, you can put your fuckin’ arms down now mate, you don’t need to stand there like you’re expecting crucifixion.”

“That’s good to know.” Tommy replies dryly, moving his arms back down to his sides and readjusting his undershirt. Alfie hands him back his waistcoat, waiting until he pulls it on to stand behind him and hold up his suit jacket for him to put his arms in. Glancing upwards into the mirror was a mistake, Alfie’s eyes staring holes into his head in the mirror’s reflection. Fastening his jacket he steps down from the small stand, always conscious of the way Alfie chuckles at his height and jokingly asks him if he wants him to lie on his records about Tommy’s height.

“You said pinstriped, yeah?” Alfie grumbles, moving his glasses back down around his neck and moving to his desk to write a few things down. “Not gonna lie mate, we’re not gonna need half as much fabric for you. You’re quite petite, Thomas.”

Another awkward clearing of his throat. “Good to know, Alfie.”

“Right, well, anythin’ else you wanna add you should say now.” He stands in front of Tommy, fingers running through his beard sporadically, biting his lip momentarily. “I don’t like to be interrupted with shit midway through my work.”

“I don’t have any changes I’d like to make.” Tommy buttons up his suit jacket, grabbing his coat to pull on carefully. Alfie’s eyes follow his movements closely. “Thank you.”

“Yeah, not a problem, treacle.” Tommy might glare just a little more than usual. “It’ll take about a week, yeah? Then you won’t be walkin’ around looking like some gypsy tramp.”

_I fucking hate him._

 

* * *

 

 

Standing in front of the mirror, Tommy does feel oddly elated. He wonders if this is what women feel like when they buy ridiculously expensive dresses and shoes. Suits were always their choice growing up but there was a difference between a Chinese market suit and a bespoke London tailor-made suit, that much was obvious. It fit him, as much as he hated to think it, like a glove. The fabric felt expensive, all his specifications were met and it just looked _good_. Even down to the extra armpit room for his gun holster or the deeper than average pockets for his flat cap. Alfie had an attention to detail Tommy was sure he wasn’t the only one to underestimate.

But how the fuck is he supposed to put up with all of these comments on a regular basis? Staring at the suit through the mirror he ponders the thought, turning sideways and then forwards once more, scowling.

Surely, London, with it’s reputation for its bespoke garments, had another more adequate and professional tailor he could see? One who didn’t laugh obnoxiously when writing down his measurements right in front of him? Who didn’t smell of rum and look like he himself was in dire need of a new wardrobe? The amount of money Tommy was paying surely meant he was at least entitled to someone who didn’t have several screws loose in their head.

Surely?

 

* * *

 

 

Not for the first time, Tommy contemplates a fast end to his own life.

_Why? This isn’t fair._

It had been the fifth tailors he’d gone to. The fifth suit arriving at his door after the fifth sizing appointment. It just wasn’t the same. The arms were too tight, there wasn’t enough room under the armpits. The pinstripes were too large. Even the fabric felt wrong. For what seems like the hundredth time he’d turned in front of the mirror, looking at his back and his front and wondering if the universe is laughing at him. Maybe they aren’t that bad, Tommy thinks. Perhaps he just needs to get to know them better so they can adequately assess and carry out his requirements.

Or maybe they weren’t giggling at his waist size enough. Or picking up a tailor-made suit for a teenage boy and saying “Sorry, Tom, mate. Mixed it up for a second there.”

Standing in front of the shabby tailors makes Tommy feel both uneasy and also relieved. He’s not sure what to make of that, though. The moment he walks through the door he hears the familiar grumbling and swearing, footsteps sounding from the back room as Alfie shoulders his way in. Then, he laughs. A deep belly laugh that might have Tommy having the odd urge to laugh with him it’s so contagious, Alfie’s crinkled eyes twinkling with a mischievous grin on his face.

“Tom, mate. Thought you’d forgotten where we were.” He says, clapping Tommy on the back, definitely not gentle. At least he doesn’t wrinkle his nose when he has to touch Tommy, though, the way the upper-end tailors did. As if he was worth less and harmful to touch. He’d though that enough about himself after France and he didn’t need war-avoiders to reaffirm anything for him.

“No, Alfie. I’ve not forgotten.” He replies, smiling almost shyly to himself. The way Alfie stares at him makes him feel that naked vulnerability again, but less like he’s baring his skin for the slaughter and more like he’s about to be privy to something unspeakably intimate.

“I take it,” Alfie’s mouth is right near his ear as he stretches behind Tommy to place his coat on the hanger for him, “that the others weren’t up to scratch, eh?”

“Not quite.” Tommy replies. There’s something about Alfie’s tone that doesn’t indicate the usual psychoticism associated with one of his moods, one of his rage-fuelled rants. As if he’s not judging Tommy for attempting to try elsewhere. It almost makes him feel sorry for it.

“They ain’t used to how scrawny you are, are they?” Alfie hums, walking back and forth with suits draped over his arms on hangers, hanging them up near the dressing room. “They’re used to big fuckin’ gluttons, mate.”

“I wanted to see if they were worth the money they were charging.” Tommy clears his throat when silence follows his statement, already feeling awkward about coming back and now more-so at his need to attempt an explanation as to why. Alfie stares, eyes narrowing momentarily before they resume their usual skittish perusing.

“C’mon, then, Tommy, get in the fuckin’ changing room.” He says, opening the curtain for him and placing a hand on his lower back to push him in. Maybe it lingers a bit too long. Maybe it doesn’t linger long enough. “Good boy.”  


He has to take a moment before underdressing behind the curtain, staring at one of the suits Alfie had already hung up in the room. A nice dark grey one, three-piece. Big pockets, he thinks, smiling a little. The waistcoat has the perfect pocket for his watch, too.

Stepping out, he’s not met with the usual tutting when he checks Alfie’s work in the mirror, but silence. When he stands on the step to look at himself in the mirror, Alfie moves behind him to just stare, without a single word escaping his lips. It’s unsettling, yet when his eyes meet Tommy’s in the mirror it’s replaced with embarrassment. The hunger in Alfie’s eyes is hard to ignore and when he stretches his arms fully around Tommy’s waist to adjust his waistcoat by pulling it from the bottom, Tommy almost dies when he lets out a small noise of surprise.

“Easy there, treacle,” Alfie grumbles into his ear, so close his beard is tickling Tommy’s neck, “don’t get too excitable, yeah. Ain’t got time to readjust for room in the pants, have I?”

“Fuck off.” Is all Tommy can manage, flushed and irritated. It only seems to encourage Alfie who chuckles heartily, rounding him to stand fully in front of him. With the extra height from the step, Tommy is for once a head above Alfie, staring down at the man in front of him. Alfie stares back, long eyelashes and crinkled eyes, smoothing Tommy’s jacket down gently.

“Not the same with anyone else, is it, sweetie?” He asks, staring knowingly at Tommy. More knowingly than he has any right to. “Wasn’t the same here without you, either.”

Tommy curves a hand around the neck he’s thought about snapping more than once, fingers curled in the hair he thinks needs trimming instantly. He kisses Alfie like he wants to be breathless, like he wants to die of suffocation, and Alfie seems to oblige him with arms around the waist he knows to the exact measurement as he hums in approval.

It really wasn’t the same with anyone else.


	2. Revelations

It was getting more difficult trying to explain why he wanted a suit fitting every other week to his family. They were a rather oblivious bunch, in Tommy’s opinion, but that didn’t stop them from sticking their noses in his business even if they were non the wiser. The only real threat was Polly and she was too preoccupied with her painter.

 _Good_ , Tommy thinks, _she can stay out of my business and I can stay out of hers_.

It wasn’t as if he didn’t actually wear all of the suits he was commissioning, nor was it as though it didn’t coincide with his lifestyle that meant more often than not his suits would be damaged beyond repair. He did, by all accounts, need more suits than the average man.

 _We both know that’s not why you’re here though_.

Tommy isn’t sure what he was imagining when Alfie invited him back to his house. A pigsty? A hostel? Definitely not a small house tucked away in a quiet corner of London with beautiful rugs decorating the floor and delicate paintings hanging on the wall. The atmosphere, Tommy supposes, does suit Alfie in an odd way. Rather old-fashioned in a way, traditional but somewhat eccentric. There are small reminders of this all around the living room, such as a rifle on the wall that Alfie said he’d carried throughout the war and taken home with him ‘for luck, mate’. A hideous lamp that Tommy is thankful he didn’t insult upon finding out it was Alfie’s late mothers, something he read by in the night time. Even the little ottoman that Alfie insists on stretching his feet out onto, ranting to Tommy about his _aching bones, yeah_ and _fuckin' sore knees_.

“You gonna read my tea leaves, sweetie?” He breaks Tommy’s train of thought, sat with his feet up with his rather large hands comically clasping a delicate teacup. His eyebrow raises before he sniggers to himself.

“I’m not sure you’d want to know what the future has in store for you, Alfie.” Tommy’s voice is monotonous, but as soon as Alfie’s stare lands on him, he might crack the tiniest smile, only because he can’t help it.

“Surprise me,” Alfie stretches over to where Tommy is sitting on the adjacent couch, handing him his cup, “work your gypsy magic.”

Tommy grasps onto the cup, moving back into his reclined position with one leg crossed over the other. Perhaps he makes a big show about turning the cup around in this direction and that direction with exaggerated expressions, if not for his own amusement then maybe for Alfie’s. Then all at once he’s reminded of simpler and happier times, sat down with his mother at the small coffee table in their tiny house when he was younger. Her arms around him from behind, grasping the teacup and telling him what the leaves all meant. He’s certain for a second that he can practically smell the perfume she used to wear, a rose scent that always wafted gently through the air. As if sensing some kind of disequilibrium, akin to the way a dog can sometimes seem to sense emotion, Alfie stands with a grumble and seats himself beside Tommy instead and pats his knee gently.

“Well,” Tommy turns his body towards Alfie ever so slightly, staring at the cup as he does, “are you sure you want to hear this?”

“Don’t try to rob me of money now, Thomas.” Alfie’s eyes narrow at him playfully. “I’m not someone who’s door you can stand at an’ sell pegs to.”

“Well, according to your leaves you can expect big changes.” Tommy turns the cup, narrowing his eyes to stare closely at the remnants of the leaves in it. “You’re going to experience some kind of revelation.”

“Fuckin’ revelation, eh?” Alfie chuckles, running his fingers through his hair and only succeeding in making it somehow even more wild than it was before, his eyes dancing around the room in concentration. “Nah mate, I think you’re reading your cup.”

“Oh?” Tommy puts the cup down gently, giving Alfie an amused look. “You drank from it. It’s your cup.”

“Actually, treacle, I picked up yours,” Alfie points over to his table where another cup lies, “wanted to see if you’d bullshit and well, if you have, you’ve gon’ and cursed yourself, ain’t you?”

Tommy can barely resist the urge to laugh, shaking his head softly and pulling out a cigarette. He takes a moment to run the cigarette across his lips before putting it in his mouth, revelling in the slight taste and the smell of the tobacco. Alfie’s eyes seem entranced, not moving from their position on Tommy’s mouth. He only moves to flick his lighter on, the soft fizz of the cigarette lighting up the only sound in the room.

Taking a deep inhale and letting the smoke drift out slowly, Tommy moves the cigarette from his mouth to give Alfie a critical stare. “That’s hardly a curse.”

“I’m hardly fuckin’ cursing people in my spare time, Tommy, love.” Alfie grumbles, as though the prospect of being wrong about Tommy’s gypsy cursing abilities genuinely irks him. “Either way you’re the one who’s gonna be undergoing a revelation, apparently.”

“What makes you think it’s not you that’s going to have the revelation?” His hand moves almost uncertainly over Alfie’s considerably larger one, fingers running over Alfie’s many rings until his hand rests over the top of Alfie’s.

Then, Alfie moves Tommy’s hand up to give it a small kiss, moving Tommy’s hand to hold his cheek and staring right at him with a softness Tommy would never expect of the man. He’s seen him more than once outside the tailor’s shop, fighting with anyone he believes to be causing trouble in the area. A man who can knock someone out with one half-hearted punch is hardly one Tommy would think could stare like this, could hold his hand like that. Then he goes and grumbles incoherently and talks utter nonsense and Tommy is reminded why he wants to ring his fucking neck on a regular basis.

“You know, at the end of the day, we all bleed blood,” he says matter of factly, “but every cloud has a gold lining.”

“Silver.” Tommy corrects, now aware of how quickly he can be taken back to their first appointment together when he was unaware that Alfie was a complete headcase with a penchant for coming up with his own idioms and phrases to describe the most bizarre things.

“What, sweetie? Speak up, I can’t fuckin hear you over the sound of you being wrong.”  Alfie swears incoherently under his breath when he goes to grab Tommy’s hand and ends up with the cigarette stubbing out on his palm.

 _Why the fuck am I panicking._ Tommy wonders briefly what’s coming over him. _It’s just a small burn._

“Idiot.” He says, putting the cigarette in the ash tray and grabbing Alfie’s hand to have a look at it, perhaps a little too glad about how minimal the damage is.  Then he sees Alfie’s grin and wonders how it was possible to underestimate the level of psychoticism the ‘wandering Jew’ has.

“Look at you all worried, treacle,” the nickname should grate on Tommy but oddly he finds himself snorting at the absurdity of Alfie almost burning his own hand just so Tommy would hold it, “you having a revelation of sorts, maybe?”

“Can’t say I am, no.” Tommy replies dryly, looking away from Alfie.

There was a time in France Tommy wondered why the usual ache for family that all of the men spoke about didn’t resonate the same way with him. Part of him assumed perhaps it was the fact he’d left a part of himself in the Somme that wanted anything good or deserved, a part that was trampled into the dirt of a land that should by rights, never grow green grass again. All he knew was that nobody incited the spark everyone always seemed to speak about inside of him, they were all just faces. He’d seen enough nameless faces to last a lifetime and he didn’t intend to get too attached to any of them for his own sake.

 Not until he’d wandered into a shabby tailors for his first bespoke suit, the first suit he’d purchased outside of the Chinese market. He was supposed to have had an appointment with the rather senile looking old man, the previous owner of the shop. Apparently his health had declined and he’d passed away from illness, though Tommy had had a sneaking suspicion after his first interaction with Alfie that would lead him to be unsurprised if he’d had an involvement. Part of Tommy might’ve known he was fucked when Alfie had said “Come on, princess, get up on your fuckin’ pedestal and stand and look pretty for me, I’m sure you can do that, can’t you?”.

“Tommy?”

It’s odd, Tommy thinks, to hear Alfie refer to him by name alone, not followed by a nickname or some kind of remark. It brings him back to the present and a pair of concerned but also suspicious blue eyes that seem to flicker with green when the fire from the fireplace dances across them.

“Yes?” He replies, clearing his throat softly. Being caught out for daydreaming wasn’t the best idea when sitting in front of a man who thrived on embarrassing him.

“Just checkin’ you’re still with me here.” Alfie pats his knee once more, grinning cheekily. “Is it ‘coz I’ve not got tape around your waist for once?”

Tommy wishes he hadn’t have sipped his whiskey at that moment, he really does. The gurgle and proceeding choking noise were both utterly humiliating and ruined the entire atmosphere that had seemed to be building, especially considering the fact he’s now sat in Alfie Solomons’ living room and not standing in front of him to be measured once more.

“Easy, sweetie, no need to go dribbling everywhere. That suit is expensive after all.” Alfie runs his fingers through his beard near the familiar scar that runs through it, eyebrows furrowing momentarily before returning to their usual slight frown.

“Fuck off, Alfie.” Tommy shakes his head, now sufficiently rattled and running his own fingers through his hair. “You’re the one who insisted on measuring me repeatedly even though twice should’ve been sufficient.”

“Well, Tommy, ain’t everyone of the belief that you’ll grow into a big boy?” Alfie sniggers, before laughing obnoxiously. “I mean, I know better now don’t I?”

“You’re not even remotely qualified for that job, I don’t know how you got it in the first place.” Tommy retorts, glaring malevolently.

“Oh yeah? You only have a problem with my work now I ain’t got my hands all over you. Funny, that is.”

Maybe it’s the fact he’s waited too long to give himself something worth having, or maybe it’s the fact he’s held off the need to be close to this man for too long. There was only so much he could get away with in the shop and he was hardly the type to initiate things with a man that seemed so ridiculously unpredictable. Perhaps it was time to turn the tables after all.

Alfie barely even has time to react when Tommy pushes all of his weight forward towards Alfie, his hands falling either side of Alfie’s head on the armrest of the couch. The advantage of surprise has left Alfie lay flat on his back with Tommy half on top of him holding his weight up, staring only for a second before descending almost frantically. The kiss is not dissimilar to their first, Tommy’s mouth moving faster than his head can keep up with. Alfie doesn’t take long to readjust, hands coming up to cup Tommy’s cheeks and maybe making Tommy weaker than he has any right too, but in the best way possible. Alfie grumbles into the kiss and Tommy almost wants to laugh but decides to give one more lingering kiss before moving upright once more.

Who’d have thought he’d end up sat on Alfie Solomons’ lap in his living room at ten o’clock at night?

“Fuckin’ell, darling. You trying to send me to an early grave or something?” Alfie stares up at Tommy, still lay on his back with a dazed expression, though the corners of his mouth begin to turn upwards. “What the fuck was that all about?”

“I guess I was forgoing the waist measurements and getting to the good stuff.” Tommy fixes his tie carefully, a flush creeping up his neck, not that he’d ever admit it. “Since you’re too much of an idiot to take some initiative.”

“Fuckin’ come back here then, gypsy boy. I’ll show you some _initiative_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God knows if I'll end up adding even MORE but I appreciated all of the lovely comments, so thought I'd add this in too. I do love writing for these two hilarious characters.  
> Let me know what you think!


	3. Intervention

“You fuckin’ _what_?”

Arthur’s voice seems to echo around the entire Garrison, though thankfully there are only a handful of people present. That doesn’t stop them all from flinching at the bang of his fists on the table, awkward silence ensuing.

“I saw him go into Alfie Solomons’ house.” Finn repeats, sheepishly, looking down at the table as though he wishes he’d never opened his mouth.

 _It’s his own fault,_ Michael thinks, _for assuming that something he’d whispered to John wouldn’t end up being shouted about to everyone within a matter of seconds._

“You’re sure?” Arthur says incredulously, his eyes comically wide and his whiskey glass discarded on the table along with his still smoking cigarette in the ashtray. “You’re positive it was Tommy?”

“Yes, I’m fucking sure!” Finn snaps, though it’s clear he regrets it instantly, even if Arthur has been going in circles for the past ten minutes with the same piece of information.

It had all started when Finn had come rushing into the Garrison, wide eyed and alert, pulling up a chair without asking for once. That in of itself was telling to Michael, Finn always tended to be the most polite one in the family. Interrupting a conversation and pulling himself up a chair right away without remorse was more John or Arthur level behaviour. It was then he’d told them about Alfie Solomons and Tommy, how they’d left his shop and walked down the street and around the corner into Alfie’s house, Finn had continued his story even as he ran out of breath.

Maybe Michael is amused by their ignorance regarding Tommy, or maybe he’s just amused it took them that long to figure out there was something going on between the eccentric tailor and their leader. Naturally, Michael’s access to finances meant he was inclined to ask Tommy why he was spending such a fortune on suits all of the time when his wardrobe could barely fit any more in. When Tommy had responded with scathing stares and indifference it had told Michael far more than any excuse or outright truth could’ve. Tommy Shelby was interested in the tailor everyone else went out of their way to avoid prolonged contact with.

“I think it’s been confirmed sufficiently, Arthur.” Michael shakes his head, taking his cigarette out of his mouth followed by a long exhale of smoke. “Not that it’s any of our business anyway.”

“You fuckin’ knew, didn’t you?” John glares, eyes narrowed and suspicious.

The atmosphere for a moment seems tense, before John starts laughing loudly and carelessly, eliciting a few confused stares from all present. Polly seems to be unsurprised by the news, Arthur still bewildered and John and Finn seem to have the same mixture of disbelief, amusement and confusion.

“So, what of it?” Polly stares at Finn, who seems to be wishing he’d never ran into the Garrison more and more by the second.

Finn shrugs, twice for good measure. “I dunno, I just- I saw it and I thought I’d tell you all?”

“Cheeky bastard,” John shakes his head, nudging the back of Finn’s head not gently, but not violently either, “you spying and gossiping about all of us now, Finn?”

“Fuck off.” Finn says, albeit rather meekly, smiling a little. “Something you don’t want everyone to know, John?”

“There’ll be none of that!” Arthur says, rather quickly and urgently.

Michael can’t help but wonder what exactly Tommy thought would happen. It was hardly going to remain a secret forever, people around Birmingham loved to gossip about everything but Thomas Shelby? Admittedly this was a family member who’d seen him, yet for a man who knows his families nosy behaviour better than anyone, Michael thinks he almost deserves the third degree he’s going to get for all of this. He should’ve known better.

“So,” Polly looks around at the group of men and Ada, who has remained surprisingly quiet throughout, “what exactly are we to do about this?”

“I think we should leave them be.” Ada says in a resolute tone, one that oddly reminds Michael of both Polly and Tommy when they’re in one of the moods where everyone knows better than to argue with them.

“Nah, we should fuckin-,” John begins, cut off by Ada.

“No, we should _not_. How unhappy has he been? How much has he done for us? If he’s happy, let’s leave him _be_. Unless you don’t want him to be happy?” Ada’s tone rises, staring around at the Shelby family that all seem to have the good sense to bow their heads and look slightly shame faced, especially in the unlikely event of Ada being the one to sternly talk good sense into them.

_The world has gone fucking mad._

“Guess we should erm- not talk about this again?” Finn suggests, as though that was a necessary addition.

“No, sweetheart,” Polly says in an exasperated tone, “we should not.”

 

* * *

 

 

He’d known something was off.

Their behaviour was suspect recently and none of them seemed to be in a rush to tell him why they were acting so strangely. Naturally, this made Tommy want to drag them all off for interrogation. The prospect of them all conspiring without him was unlikely which meant it must be either some form of protest against him, or gossip. Either were likely, since the other week Tommy had intervened with Arthur and John’s bright idea of seeing who could run over hot coals the fastest barefoot. He’d also told Ada to stop talking to the communist man who handed out leaflets near the Garrison, which she hadn’t taken too well. Polly could be angry over something he’d said when he was five and Finn was impressionable enough to ignore Tommy just because the wind blew past him in the other direction.

Michael, however, wasn’t stupid. ‘Shelby’ they may call him, but he was a Gray and lacked the same moral stupidity his brothers did and was also less likely to hold a grudge than everyone in his family. So when Michael steps into his office and shuts the door behind him, Tommy is eager for answers.

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on, Michael?” He asks, taking his cigarette out of his mouth and eyeing Michael at the door, watching the boy take his jacket off meticulously until he seats himself across from Tommy with a raised eyebrow.

“Do I have a chance to breathe before you jump down my throat, or?” He replies, taking a cigarette out for himself and lighting it slowly.

 _Bastard,_ Tommy thinks, _he’s been around us all too long._

“Care to explain why I’m being ignored?” Tommy enquires further, making sure to look right at Michael’s eyes too ensure he’s not being lied to. Although a part of Tommy wonders if he’d even be able to tell. He really ought to keep a closer eye on Michael before he became a real threat.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Michael stares at him as though he’s suddenly switched places with Arthur and briefly Tommy considers not staring at Arthur with this level of scorn anymore. It really was quite unsettling.

“No, it isn’t.” Tommy puts his cigarette out, clearing his throat. “So are you going to explain, Michael, or are you going to milk it some more?”

“You and Solomons.” Michael replies simply, so simply and matter-of-fact that it takes Tommy a moment to actually appreciate the gravity of the statement.

He chokes on the cigarette smoke, clearing his throat desperately and trying to lean back as casually as possible. Not that it matters, Michael is already smirking to himself like the true serpent he is, it takes every fibre of Tommy’s being not to fire him right now out of spite.

“Who told everyone?” Tommy asks, attempting not to sound like judge, jury and executioner even if that’s what he intended to be upon finding out.

“Doesn’t matter,” Michael stands, putting out his cigarette and walking back over to the coat stand, pulling his coat back on, “it’s too late now, we all know.”

“Is that right?” Tommy stands, hands in his pockets.

“Good luck with that, Tommy.” Michael sniggers, actually _sniggers_ , before leaving.

_Fucking fantastic._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter but there will probably be more, if you all enjoy!  
> I love hearing feedback so please do leave comments if you're enjoying this :)


	4. Privacy

It should be a simple reciprocal matter, all things considered. Alfie was polite and trusting enough to invite Tommy into his home, so the least Tommy could do is reciprocate. It’s not as if he has anything to hide, really. His home in Birmingham was hardly anything to write home about, a mere fragment of a past that he had far exceeded monetarily, yet he kept a hold of. Not only was it an odd source of comfort but it was a place he was unlikely to be bothered by those who would attempt to cause him harm, also quiet and small which didn’t remind him of how alone he was in the same way a larger house would.

It only looks smaller when Alfie Solomons is actually standing in the doorway, as if he’s standing in a miniature house not a regular one. Admittedly the houses were coal miners’ houses, small terraced houses with narrow staircases and tiny rooms. However, the lights dancing from the fireplace illuminate the walls and make it look much cosier than it did in early morning. The carpets and paintings and ornaments all add an odd sense of home to the place, even if the black walls and dark shadows could otherwise make it look rather intimidating or cold.

“Am you gonna stand there like a fuckin’ lemon all day, Tommy?” Alfie grumbles, shutting the front door behind himself and hanging his coat up carefully on the pegs in the hallway, pausing before placing his hat on them too.

Tommy clears his throat, putting his cap on the peg too, following his own coat. “Come on in.”

Alfie lumbers after him into the living room, grumbling and groaning as he does, letting out an abnormally long and loud sigh as he sits on the couch with his arms splayed along the back of it.

“Fuckin cold wrecks me knees, Tommy, it really does.” He rubs his knees momentarily, mumbling under his breath as he does. “Though it might just be the fuckin’ Birmingham air.”

“The Birmingham air?” Tommy repeats, deadpan, sitting on the same couch as Alfie at a respectable distance. Alfie raises an eyebrow at him, his eyes seeming to go from out of focus to laser-sharp in a mere second when he stares at Tommy.

“Yeah, treacle, the air. It’s fuckin’ _damp_ around here. It’s like it’s seepin’ into my fuckin’ bones.” He replies, stretching back and resting his head on the back of the couch.

For a moment, Tommy is distracted by actually just staring at Alfie, just the freedom of being able to look right at him as he’s wanted to for so long. The fireplace makes shadows dance across Alfie’s face, his eyes looking far bluer than they have before. Maybe it was the dull lighting in the tailors’ shop or the general lack of light in the general area, or perhaps it was just because Tommy never stared longer than thirty seconds because if had have, he’d never have looked away again.

“Sorry, I didn’t equip the place for senile pensioners,” Tommy leans back into the couch, staring into the fireplace before smirking a little to himself, “senile _ungrateful_ pensioners.”

“Fuckin’ell, Thomas, I think you’re the one being a bit ungrateful.” Alfie grumbles, messing with his beard absent-mindedly. “I’ve dragged my weary bones all this way only to be talked to like this?”

“Well if you have that much of a problem, Alfie, I can bring you your cane and you can leave.” Tommy stares with serious eyes, absent a smile. Yet somehow it’s like Alfie can see the twinkle in Tommy’s eyes that betray his fake seriousness.

“C’mon now, Tommy. As if I could ever leave you.” Alfie’s voice is low, lacking the usual excess volume and up and down pitch Tommy is usually accustomed to. Something about the sudden change in tone and the now seemingly heavier air makes Tommy hyperaware of blue eyes following his every movement. He’s surprised he doesn’t feel embarrassed, but he supposes it’s hard to be both when Alfie is the one who made a statement like that and when Alfie is staring at him like this.

Then, as with all good things in Tommy’s life, it’s ruined by his family.

“Tommy, you’ll never fucking guess who I’ve just seen-,”

John barges into the living room and comes to a stop, as though the damage hasn’t already been done. Though Alfie’s hand that had crept to Tommy’s knee doesn’t move from its position, Tommy is now more aware of the entire position and situation in a way he wasn’t before.

“Oh, go on John. Who _have_ you just seen?” Tommy asks, tone just daring John to try and ruin the moment further, though he doesn’t have a doubt in his mind that his brother is too stupid to catch onto this even if he was trying to.

“I’m sure I can tell you later-,” John begins, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly before being interrupted again.

“Go on, mate, fuckin’ell. If it was important enough to interrupt then fuckin’ spit it out.” Alfie glares and though he’s sat down, for a moment Tommy is reminded of the few times he’s seen Alfie genuinely angry and aggressive. A difficult feat for a tailor, but then again plenty of men who got sized for suits were in criminal business just like Tommy.

It was fellow tailor Sabini that had been the one to truly set Alfie off at every occasion, they’d known each other since school and both had tailor shops two streets apart from each other. Tommy had only seen them interact once when Alfie had wrapped the measuring tape around Sabini’s throat in an attempt to strangle him for daring to step foot in his shop and knock a mannequin over. He’s giving John the same look he’d given Tommy afterwards when he’d asked Alfie if that kind of behaviour was really necessary, responding with “that’s rich comin’ from a fuckin’ gangster, ain’t it?”.

“I just saw May Carleton, said she was lookin’ for you.” John responds, standing taller even if his tone is more subdued. Tommy just wants to die right now. Before he even has a chance to interject, an interruption is made for the third time this evening.

“Yeah, well, mate. You can tell her to fuckin’ jog on, how does that sound?” Alfie asks, looking around as though he genuinely expects an answer. “Yeah.”

John stares at Tommy with panicked confusion, clearly not knowing if he should laugh, agree or just leave. Tommy isn’t sure himself but just waves his hand at John and shakes his head gently. John seems to thankfully get the message, nodding curtly and swaggering out the door, slamming it shut behind him.

“Came all the way from London lookin’ for you? Wow, you must be somethin’ fuckin’ special.” Alfie grumbles, rubbing at his beard. The gold from his rings and bracelet catch the light of the fireplace, casting shimmers of gold across the wall for a second. Then, it finally sticks. Alfie…is jealous.

“Yeah, I guess I am.” Tommy nods, staring back towards the front door purposefully. Alfie looks enraged at Tommy wonders why he thought it was a good idea to antagonise him almost immediately.

“Yeah, you fuckin’ are, ain’t you?” He nods furiously, eyes looking wild. “For _me_. Not for some upper-class strumpet.”

Against every survival instinct he should have, Tommy laughs. Not his usual half-arsed chuckle, but a proper laugh. The kind that has him keeling over and wheezing for breath until his ribs hurt. Though Alfie at first seems to look angrier, his eyes soften almost immediately and he chuckles along for a few seconds.

“You’re gonna be the death of me, sweetie, I fuckin’ know you are.”

 

* * *

 

 

“I _walked_ in!” John wails into Esme’s shoulder, having caused yet another commotion in the Garrison about Tommy and Alfie.

“Fuckin’ calm down, it’s not as if you saw anythin’.” Arthur yells, slapping John’s back so violently he falls forward so quickly he almost crushes Esme into the floor, though thankfully he manages to keep upright, “ _did you_?”

Arthur’s voice sounds both incredulous and intrigued, as though he both wants to hear something scandalous and would rather die than know. The others seem equally torn, Polly staring thoughtfully before shaking her head and looking away. Finn who has eyes like saucers and Ada who stares eagerly with her head on her hand, always one to enjoy a good bit of gossip.

John wonders if he should make something up just to entertain them all and push off the fact he was making such a big deal over what was really, nothing. Until he sees Michael’s steely gaze on him, as if he was aware that there was a stupid plot thickening in the air that he could ruin and put a stop to. Apparently it was his job to suck the fun out of everything.

“Nah, I didn’t. They were just really close, Solomon’s looked like he wanted to fucking _eat_ Tommy.” John replies, sulkily.

“You ran in here to tell us that you just saw them sat together?” Michael asks, John’s urge to smash the bottle he was drinking from over his cousins head increasing.

“Yeah well, he was furious with me! Everyone knows he’s a fuckin’ headcase!” John protests, Esme soothing a hand through his hair and down the back of his neck, shushing him with a smack to the head with an amused but exasperated look.  

“What if he doesn’t want us to know?” Arthur says in a conspiratory tone, looking around as though he expected Alfie’s head to appear from under the bar as if he’d been lay in waiting for the opportunity to kill those who spoke about him.

“Oh, fuck off.” Polly says, finally at the end of her own rope. “If you’d all stop running in here like headless chickens over such useless things maybe we wouldn’t be in this mess.”

“That’s true. It’s not even good gossip.” Ada nods along, staring at her nails.

“In this mess implies we should be worried.” Finn says, staring at the table until all eyes stare at him in utter confusion. He looks up, eyes flickering back and forth to each person. “What? I’m right.”

“Let’s just not talk about it anymore, shall we?” Michael finishes, standing up and pulling his jacket on. He’s the first to leave followed by Polly and Finn. John and Esme are both play fighting on their way out, though it looks more like they’re genuinely trying to kill each other. Ada flounces out, waving to Arthur and wishing him a good night.

Arthur takes a moment to lock up before exiting the Garrison, turning to lock the front doors finally. When he turns, he almost has a heart attack.

Alfie.

“You alright there, mate? Look a bit jumpy.” He asks, raising an eyebrow at him, looking unimpressed.

“Nah, I’m all good, thanks.” Arthur replies, looking for an escape route before he remembers that Alfie’s house is only down the road from the Garrison. Though something about his stare makes Arthur think that perhaps he isn’t stupid for assuming Alfie wanted to kill them all. He nods once at Arthur before grumbling as he walks off, still continuing even as he reaches the bottom of the street.

 _I’m lucky I escaped with my life_ , Arthur thinks, _I really ought to talk to Tommy about this._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha, I just couldn't help myself. Hopefully this is an enjoyable read!  
> Feedback always appreciated.


	5. Karma

There weren’t really many opportunities for normality in Birmingham. Everything in the place lacked convention, from the children who were just as likely to mug you as the adults were, even accompanied by the swearing, to the adults who brawled in the streets at 6 o’clock in the morning over newspapers.

But lying in bed with the sun just cracking in through the old curtains, casting a line of light over Alfie Solomons’ face, has to be against every idea of normality Tommy Shelby ever had in his life. He’d decided long ago that anything he wanted in life he was owed at this point, after seeing such horror and taking part in it, he deserved what he wanted. It was only fair, no matter how many people told him life wasn’t fair. He’d been aware of that since he’d come back from the war, everything after was borrowed time so he intended to live as though every moment was his last, as if the rug could be pulled from under his feet at any moment. Right now though, the rug seems to be staying where it should be.

“Mornin’, treacle.” Alfie yawns with reckless abandon, stretching so far that he almost shoves Tommy right out of the rather small bed until he manages to latch an arm around his waist with a speed Tommy didn’t expect he possessed. “Fuckin’ hell, Thomas, watch yourself.”

“Right, because that was _my_ fault.” Tommy huffs, moving his face into the pillow grumpily. Alfie’s fingers dance down his spine, tickling all the way up to his neck until Tommy is twitching uncontrollably, which naturally just makes him angrier. “Fuck _off_!”

“Stop being so fuckin’ miserable, Tommy.” Alfie scolds, tickling near his worst spot right under his chin until Tommy almost headbutts him. “C’mon, smile for me.”

Tommy wants to choke the life out of him for this, wants to hit him over the back of the head until there’s a satisfying thudding noise in the room. Yet his soft smile and crinkled eyes are oddly irresistible and combined with the tickling, Tommy can manage a small smile. He still shoves a pillow into Alfie’s face, though. The started grumble and series of curse words might make him smile even wider, in retrospect.

“I swear, you’re not worth the hassle you give me, sweetie.” Alfie growls, pushing the pillow under his head and yanking Tommy not too gently towards him, tucking Tommy under his arm so that Tommy can comfortably lie with his head on Alfie’s chest. It’s quite domestic, though the association doesn’t fill Tommy with as much fear as he assumed it might.

“They’re all convinced you’re going to kill Arthur, you know. He asked me if you’d ever killed anyone before and then I thought to myself, well. I don’t actually _know_ if my tailor has killed anyone.” Tommy shakes his head, moving it upwards to rest his chin on Alfie’s chest to stare up at him.

“ _Your_ tailor?” Alfie grins, like an idiot. Tommy finds it typical that Alfie ignored all of the other implications of Tommy’s statement and focused on just that _one_ tiny bit.

“That’s what you took from that. That’s _all_ you took from it?” Tommy sighs, closing his eyes and letting out a long exhale of air from his nostrils.

“Yeah, mate. Talking about murder in our bed is hardly sexy, is it?” Alfie shakes his head at Tommy as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“Our bed?” Tommy stares, amused.

“Oh is _that_ all you took from it?” Alfie mocks him, imitating his voice in the most botched Birmingham accent Tommy has ever heard, and worst of all, Tommy encourages it by accidentally laughing out loud.

“You’re a fucking idiot.” Tommy himself might notice the tone of affection in his voice when he says it, even if he doesn’t intend to acknowledge it. Alfie’s stare tells him that maybe the man everyone assumes is an oblivious psychopath is more perceptive than everyone gives him credit for.

“Am I now?” He replies, looking smugger by the second. “You don’t seem to be that bothered by it, Thomas.”

“Shut up and hold me.” Tommy grumbles, moving his cheek back down to Alfie’s chest and revelling the feeling of being able to just do nothing but to have someone to share it with.

“Alright, princess, gimme a fuckin’ second.” Alfie murmurs, snaking his arm around Tommy and stroking down his back softly.

_Perfection._

 

* * *

 

 

“What is it you called me here to talk about, Arthur?” Tommy tries to keep the exasperation from his tone, though it only seems to result in him sounding even more irritated.

“Well,” Arthur looks to John and Michael, seated either side of him, as if for moral support, “we wanted to talk to you about…..Alfie.”

“We?” Michael says inquisitively. “ _You_ called _us_ here too. I think you mean _you_ want to know.”

Arthur looks crestfallen but takes a sip of his drink and continues on regardless, John looking on like he wished Esme would come in and drag him out by his ear as she had many a time before. The gypsy equivalent of hoping the ground would swallow you whole.

“Well. I just meant…how long will he be around, you know?” Arthur continues, volume not as excessive as it usually was.

“Be around?” Tommy sighs, running his fingers through his hair, suddenly cursed with the same urge to be swallowed up by the ground as John was. “That makes it sound like you expect him to die suddenly.”

“No!” Arthur replies jumpily, as if he expects Tommy is actually assuming he’s attempting to kill Alfie secretly. “I just meant, y’know, is it serious?”

John groans, putting his head in his hands and swearing violently into them. Michael seems to be both amused and horrified at Arthur’s attempts to get Tommy to talk about his private life, narrowing his eyes but sniggering quietly. Ada, quietly reading the newspaper, now seems to be reading the same line repeatedly. Polly looks relatively the same as usual, unimpressed and vaguely annoyed. Tommy finds that the most relatable.

“Is there any particular reason why you are now _so_ interested in my private life?” Tommy’s voice verges on confrontational, though he remains leaning back in his chair, wondering why he even showed up in the first place. Family meetings were always far more effort than they were worth, resulting in at least one upset family member and almost always in Tommy wondering if he should just disown himself and change the company name to Tommy Shelby limited.

“It’s not exactly private now, though, is it?” Michael interjects, his hands clasped together on his lap.

Tommy always thought Michael was the most dangerous family member of them all. Not his drunkard of a father, his idiotic older brother or his brash and erratic younger brother, or even his rather naïve and innocent youngest brother. No, his cousin. The horrible mix of Polly’s temper and shrewdness combined with traits Tommy knows he had when he was younger. The thinly veiled arrogance, the disregard for other people’s opinions. The unassuming lack of self-preservation when bigger goals were ahead. He supposes it’s his own fault for inviting Michael into the company, since he is now practically modelling himself on Tommy, which makes him the most dangerous of them all.

It is unnerving that the look absent in Finn and all of the younger generation isn’t absent in Michael. The emptiness that most men returning from war had, eyes like the ocean. Calm and tranquil one moment only to turn to stormy and erratic the next. He supposes they’ve all fought battles of their own.

_I knew I should have left him in the countryside with that fucking well he wanted to blow up so badly._

“Isn’t it? Last I checked you were the ones digging into it.” Tommy leans forward, eyeing them all coldly. “Perhaps if you weren’t so hellbent on sticking your noses in my business we wouldn’t be in this mess.”

Surprisingly, it isn’t John who replies angrily like he expected. Nothing seems to be going to way he expected recently.

“Oh, fuck off, Tommy.” Ada sighs, finally moving her newspaper down to eye him with annoyance. “You’ve hardly been subtle about it. You can hardly judge anyone else for being nosy when you’re the worst of us all for it. At least we don’t start telling you who you can and can’t see or try to pretend like it’s only for the good of the business.”

“I don’t-“ Tommy begins, attempting to steer the reigns but being interrupted once more.

“John wouldn’t be married if not for you being nosy! You almost shot Freddie for being in _love_ with me and assumed it was all about you! Polly isn’t allowed to be happy if you have your say and Arthur is judged when he’s happy even if the woman he’s with wants to cut his balls clean off and crucify him! God help poor Finn if you get your hands on him.”

Tommy swears he hasn’t been gutted like this and left for dead since his mother almost tore his head off for buying a top hat with the money she gave him for groceries. He feels like he’s nine years old again.

“I think what Ada means to say is that you can’t really blame people for treating you the way you treat them.” Finn says, ever full of surprises. “It’s not that we’re not happy for you, it’s just that we’re curious because you don’t tell us anything.”

“Yeah!” Arthur nods enthusiastically. “Fuckin’ exactly.”

“Right.” Tommy clears his throat awkwardly, staring out of the window. “I guess I’ll be more honest with you from now on.”

“You better be.” Ada slaps him over the head with the newspaper playfully.

_This family is cursed._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait! Sometimes life gets in the way of Tommy Shelby being happy, haha.  
> Do feel free to leave any feedback :)


	6. Family dinner

“Fuckin’ell, Thomas, are we getting married now?” Alfie grumbles, glaring at himself in the small mirror as if he was being mistreated in the most abhorrent way.

“Alfie, I’m just putting you in clothes that have actually been cleaned.” Tommy sighs, attempting to tuck Alfie’s shirt in and only succeeding in making him giggle like a little girl.

“S’fuckin’ ticklish there, Tommy.” He chuckles, wiping his eyes.

Tommy wishes he didn’t find this idiot of a mans laughter endearing, or find the way his eyes crinkled adorable, or the way he laughed attractive. Maybe he just wanted to cut costs and subconsciously picked Alfie to be attracted to in an attempt to reduce the cost of purchasing clothes every week. Though, that doesn’t really work out when he ended up buying more than he needed in the first place just to have an excuse to interact with Alfie. Plus, it’s not as if Alfie gives him suits for free now either.

“You sure you don’t wanna get married, treacle? You’re looking at me all funny,” Alfie leans down, placing his glasses on the tip of his nose and staring down through them at Tommy with a quizzical expression, “almost as if you actually _love_ me.”

_Love._

Tommy hasn’t thought about that word in a long time. It was something he didn’t really consider a priority after France. People like John and Arthur needed someone to lean on, a crutch. For John it was a wife who would help with his kids, keep his house in order and him in order too. For Arthur it was comfort and a moral compass, someone who could soothe him and tell him right from wrong. Tommy wasn’t really sure what he wanted from anyone, as he’d always worked perfectly fine by himself. He’d built the company up from nothing and had almost died multiple times doing so, without the need for a crutch. Yet here his stands, glasses perched on nose looking like a complete moron talking about love, yet somehow Tommy feels an odd sense of equilibrium.

As if he knows, which he somehow always does, Alfie grasps both of Tommy’s smaller hands in his own. The cold metal of his multiple rings tickle Tommy’s hands as he brings them up to his mouth and kisses them gently. Oddly enough the feeling of vulnerability that usually plagues him in moments like these and ruins them, forcing him to back out as quickly as possible, is absent.

“And what if I do?” Tommy clears his throat slightly, but maintains eye contact with Alfie. Alfie’s eyes crinkle once more, moving Tommy’s hand up to his cheek where Tommy can feel the gentle scratch of his beard and touch the scar running through it.

“Well if you do, you fuckin’ do, don’t you?” Alfie nods to himself, clearly inspired by his own nonsensical utterances.

_God, Tommy, you’ve got it bad._

“Yeah, I do.” Tommy nods, deciding that maybe he should just go along with Alfie’s eccentricities just this once and see where it got him. There was no harm in trying. Apart from the small issue of bringing him home for a ‘family meal’, whatever that constituted as. Since Polly hadn’t cooked since….well, ever, other than the one time she made Michael sandwiches, Tommy isn’t quite sure what to expect.

“Yeah?” Alfie nods repeatedly, murmuring to himself before kissing Tommy’s forehead, having to lean down a little to do so. “Yeah.”

“You know you don’t _have_ to do this.” Tommy is maybe being a bit selfish and hoping Alfie will say he doesn’t want to go, just to save him having to go through it as well. After all, his family were all vultures and Alfie was just…Alfie. Though they’d all had minor interactions with him, they didn’t really know him that well, which meant that they would probably be left confused and irritated by him. Tommy wasn’t sure he wanted that kind of burden being placed on Alfie, having to be nice to people being assholes to him. Plus, Tommy knows in his gut it will probably irritate him to see Alfie being treated like some kind of weird specimen.

“I’m not goin’ over the fuckin’ trench into no mans land, Tommy.” Alfie says, matter-of-factly, shaking his head softly. “If you want me to, I’ll go.”

Tommy clears his throat once more. “Okay.”

 

* * *

 

 

 

“You’ve got everything ready, right?” Arthur turns to Ada, who stares at him like he’s grown another head.

“Why are you asking _me_?” Her tone is pointed, eyes narrowed. Arthur, as per usual, seems to completely miss the cue that he is pissing off a woman that doesn’t need pissing off.

“Well, you’re the wo-,” he begins before being elbowed in the gut by John, who by virtue of his rather violent wife, seems to have some sense. “Never mind.”

The small kitchen is busy, with all family members rushing around with various items in the tiny space. Though any area the entire family in tends to be hectic, this is more-so than usual. Instead of inviting Alfie to the huge mansion that is worlds apart from Small Heath, Tommy thought it best to invite him to the small house in which they all have meetings and discuss business. Though it was a bit cramped, it was nice and warm and much less intimidating than a huge mansion would’ve been. Apparently out of them all, Charlie was decided as the most competent to cook of them all, accompanied by Curly who hands him utensils and food when he requires it.

“You’d think the bloody pope was visiting.” Polly takes a drag of her cigarette, shaking her head. “All this effort.”

“Aren’t you the one who suggested it?” Michael stares at her, midway through setting the table with Finn, who seems to be struggling with the setup of a simple dinner table.

“I just said to invite him to dinner, not the Queens fucking buffet, Michael.” She scolds, stopping to correct something Finn was moving around with a slightly less edged tone.

“I wonder when they’ll be arriving?” Ada asks nobody in particular, resting her chin on her hand with a rather dreamy expression. “I wonder what they’re actually like together?”

“Ew, what do you mean, Ada?” Arthur asks with a peculiar expression, as though her question wasn’t entirely innocent. “I’m not sure I wanna know.”

“You stupid bastard, she didn’t mean that!” John corrects the situation, looking surlier by the second as he sits beside his wife, clearly just wanting to get this over and done with. Esme is more concerned with the progress of the cooking, offering rather bizarre alternatives to Charlie who seems to be on his last straw for Gypsy cooking 101.

Linda seems to have given up trying to contain Arthur, who seems to be roaming around as if he’s trying to put a fire on his own leg out, never staying in one spot for too long before he quickly paces back around. Occasionally, he hears the most minute of movements outside of the house and bolts towards the door before backing off once more. Then at last, movement near the door prompts him to bolt towards the hallway once more just as Tommy is entering through the front door with a large looming figure behind him. Tommy gives Arthur a moderately scathing stare before hanging up his jacket and hat, taking Alfie’s from his shoulders as Alfie turns to help him with the action. There is something oddly domestic about watching Tommy slide Alfie’s jacket from his broad shoulders and hang it with the other coats, brushing down his shirt and turning to walk into the kitchen. Arthur stares dumbly for a moment, turning to rush into the kitchen once he realises he’s obstructing the doorway.

“They’re _here_!” He hisses, as if it isn’t obvious.

By now, everyone is seated at the table, rather, the three tables pushed together to make one rather large and rickety looking one. By their standards, the table has never looked better or more well presented than it does right now, with all of the food in the middle looking considerably better than Tommy would’ve expected. Admittedly, it would’ve taken a special skill for Charlie to fuck up a simple stew, but with all of his family around Tommy had been expecting the worst since he was nine years old. He clears his throat, pulling out a chair for Alfie, who grumbles before sitting down rather comfortably, looking completely at ease. This doesn’t surprise Tommy, who thinks the man would somehow make a palace look like it was his own when walking into it, just by mere presence alone. Avoiding the curious stares of his family, Tommy sits himself down quickly and swiftly.

“So, Alfie,” Ada begins the conversation as bowls of stew are being handed out haphazardly across the table along with slices of bread, “been busy with your tailoring? What, with Epsom coming up?”

“Yeah, oh yeah,” he nods enthusiastically with furrowed brows, “loads of men wanting their fuckin’ top hats and tailcoats, innit?”

“What’s your favourite thing to make?” Ada asks after a spoonful of food, looking over her bowl at Alfie. The others seem content, for now at least, to stick to just eating before joining the conversation.

“Oh, suits, yeah.” Alfie nods, staring into space as if he’s giving this the most serious of considerations. “Dresses are tricky, women can be quite particular about ‘em, can’t they?”

Ada giggles a little, nodding enthusiastically. “You don’t like tailoring dresses?”

“They’re alright, s’just very specific. You can go three ways of wrong with a dress, you can’t with a suit. Unless it’s for Tommy and has to be taken up five inches on the arms and legs.” Alfie sniggers to himself.

John dribbles out some of his stew, being elbowed by Esme for this infraction and then proceeding to fully spill it down his front. Thankfully, as a mother would do with her toddler, Esme had anticipated spillage earlier and made sure John was equipped with a napkin. Arthur looks between Tommy and Alfie as if expecting some kind of violent reaction, only to look back at an amused Linda in complete shock. Ada smiles at them both, as if she’s suddenly found her new couple obsession that isn’t from the films she loves so much, and Michael just continues to eat without looking up. Finn, Charlie and Curly are too busy murmuring to each other at the other end of the table about God knows what to be listening to Alfie complain about Tommy’s petite limbs.

“So!” Arthur interjects, as if Alfie has just told everyone he’s pregnant instead of making a perfectly harmless joke. “Have you got loads of suits done for Epsom, or?”

“Well, yeah mate. It is my job, innit?” Alfie says between mouthfuls of food with a peculiar stare directed at Arthur.

Arthur nods with a little less enthusiasm, as if he wondered why he’d opened his mouth to begin with.

Tommy is wondering why he’d opened his to begin with. This suggestion had been a questionable one at best.

_Typical._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is obviously cut at a weird place and that's because the next chapter MAY be the last. But even if not, it will be a continuation of this one. I'd like to thank everyone so much for all of the support and lovely comments/kudos etc you've been leaving. I wouldn't still be writing this if not for your kind words!!  
> Hope you all enjoy.


	7. Peace

Remembering France was a usually painful memory, or sequence of memories. Things Tommy would like to keep locked up in a box and far away from prying eyes, including his own. There were many who often praised him for being put together, for seeming to be relatively unaffected by the war. These people clearly didn’t know him very well. There were alternatively, the people who questioned his motives for not only choosing a lifestyle of violence and bloodshed, but also his choice to remain as such even when he’d earned more than enough money to live comfortably for the rest of his years with minimal danger. It’s hard to explain to people that once you’ve taken that first step into violence it’s hard to go back, that when you’ve been so close to certain death it’s hard to feel much of anything at all without always being on the precipice of something. Moments that made everyone else question the fragility of their lives just made Tommy feel more alive, he was at his best when it was life threatening and noisy. He hated the quiet.

Until Alfie.

The man that made him question every aspect of himself, but instead of shattering him the way life and many people in his life had, put him back together with a grumble and some nonsensical rambles. Who treated him gently but not naively. Tommy had never tried to think about the ideal life after France because he didn’t want to run the risk of further disappointment, thinking of something he could never hope to obtain. He’d never been under the impression that he’d live a white picket fence life, yet the thought of settling down had always scared him in a way that nothing else did. Maybe it was the thought of being wholly committed only to have it come crashing down on him after being so invested in something.

Yet here he is, reclined in a comfortable seat with his newspaper without a bottle of whisky beside him, feeling content with everything. He’d never wanted to be around endless fields of green again, finding himself imagining the way it started to glaze over with mud and other images he’d rather not think about. But here he is in his countryside house with Alfie fucking Solomons, baking in the kitchen. The soft smell of freshly baked bread wafts through the air and brings with it an odd sense of nostalgia and comfort.

“Eh, Tommy,” Alfie’s voice drifts in from the kitchen, as incoherent as usual, “you gonna sit on your arse all day?”

Tommy smiles to himself momentarily, shaking his head at the fact that he isn’t even remotely bothered about being belittled on a regular basis for anything from his height when he’s trying to reach something in the cupboard or his recently acquired glasses that he wears when reading the morning paper. As if Alfie won’t grab him by the waist regardless of Tommy’s protests to help him reach the higher shelves or proceed to kiss the life out of Tommy for wearing said glasses.

When he finally steps foot into the kitchen, Alfie is slicing up freshly baked bread, making small noises of discontent when his fingertips inevitably get slightly burned from holding onto it.

“You should wait before you cut it.” Tommy chastises, taking the knife from Alfie and putting a small dish towel over the bread to cut it without singing his fingertips off.

“Okay, sweetie, I’m not fuckin’ ten years old,” Alfie tuts, resting his head on Tommy’s shoulder, “I can manage a bit of bread. Only been baking the majority of my fuckin’ life, ain’t I?”

“Then why do you still complain when your fingers get burned on anything?” Tommy raises an eyebrow, turning his head to look at Alfie, breaking into a smile at the last second.

It would never be the same with anyone else. The domesticity of it all, the tranquillity. It wasn’t anybody else’s idea of perfection but that didn’t matter because it wasn’t like Tommy was choking on the smoke of the trenches in France anymore, or breathing in the coal of Birmingham. Here they could just be together without the weight of the world and the past on their shoulders, without the need to be more than they wanted or intended to. His family had always told him that they’d wanted the best for him, for him to be happy. Until now he wasn’t sure how he ever would be with the fact he was too consumed with continuing a lifestyle that would send him to an early grave. Maybe deep down that’s what he had been hoping for, something he’d felt eternally guilty about until Alfie had confessed that after the war he’d thought of similar things. Maybe the stars had aligned.

“Gotta wait for the bread to cool, sweetie.” Alfie says, as though Tommy was waiting on pins for the opportunity to burn his fingers and tongue immediately.

“That would probably be for the best.” Tommy agrees, walking to the back door of the house and swinging it open gently.

It’s summer in full swing in the countryside at the moment, with endless fields of green and flowers in full bloom, not a single cloud in the sky. No Birmingham smog and abrasive noise, just contented quiet. It’s not entirely silent, which Tommy is thankful for. Prolonged silences made him jittery, they were eerie and only served to fuel his paranoia. But here, he can hear children running past down the dirt-path behind the tall hedges around his and Alfie’s house, yelping and yelling with reckless abandon. It makes him smile.

The arms around his waist feel as perfect as the sun on his skin. “Enjoying yourself, treacle?”

“Yes,” Tommy replies, his voice pliant, “I am.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Another postcard!” Arthur exclaims, wafting the card in the air as though anyone would be able to still accurately see what was on it. “Can you believe it?”

“Are you going to show it to us, or not?” Polly sighs, sat delicately sipping from a glass of whisky as though everyone doesn’t know she’s going to down the glass as soon as all of the eyes in the room are pointed elsewhere in the Garrison.

John can’t really fathom that Tommy, his stone-faced older brother, is sending deliberately shitty postcards from a post office in the countryside somewhere with deliberately vague messages about what he’s up to. He supposes it’s because of their frequent interventions earlier on in his and Alfie’s relationship, yet it still doesn’t cease the frustrations of everyone wanting more detail than the fact the weather is nice and he’s not choking on the smoke in the air because there isn’t any. As though any of them need reminding Birmingham is a shithole.

“It’s the same old fuckin’ shit,” Arthur shakes his head, tossing the postcard over to Ada, who surveys it with interest, “he can’t help himself.”

Ada, the only Shelby who has visited Tommy in his new home as of yet, smiles and turns the postcard around to read it. She giggles and leans back in her chair, tucking the postcard in her pocket to no doubt join the others she’d kept in the past year since Tommy had moved away.

“He’s happy. That’s all that matters.” Ada says, matter-of-factly, clipping Arthur over the side of the head.

Finn snorts for a second. “Imagine Tommy going into a local post office in the morning without scaring someone to death.”

“Imagine being in a family that wasn’t full of incompetent imbeciles.” Polly says, downing the last of her drink before standing to leave. “Make sure you all send something back.”

Ada had told them after visiting Tommy the first time that she’d seen all of the postcards his family had sent back pinned on the wall, even the most ridiculous ones Arthur and John had managed to get their hands on. It was odd to think that the brother who seemed to lack any sentimentality had kept on to such trivial things, yet when considering the circumstances of him currently living in the countryside with a headcase of a tailor, it wasn’t that odd in retrospect.

At least Thomas Shelby being happy meant he wasn’t bothering his entire family and involving himself in their personal business.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly this is the worlds shortest chapter and for that I apologise, but this is drawing to a close, I've just been very busy!  
> Hopefully this is enough to pass the time until the final chapter comes out.


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